Simba

On the eve of the great celebration, the pride knew it needed a leader. One of the strong ones was chosen to inherit the crown, and would lead them on their journey across the great border to the south. His name was Simba.

It was the wetting down season, and the rest of the cubs were busily preparing for the event. To interact with the people of the south, the young lions prepared translations for helpful phrases like, “Thank you, officer, for letting me know I was speeding,” and, “Hello, my handsome friend, please don’t take me to jail.”

With Simba to lead them, they could not fail.

On the day of the great celebration, the pride followed the trail leading to the watering hole, and before the sun set over the western sea, they had settled on a fine location not far from the place named “Admin”, where they would sleep that night.

And they drank. The pride was thirsty that night.

After they had quenched the dryness in their throats, Simba declared, “It is time to eat!” With a mighty roar the cubs followed him to the feeding grounds, a small den known throughout the land for its seafood.

The pride tore into the food with wild abandon. But soon, they began to realize something was wrong. Simba had disappeared, as if he were chased from the valley by wild hyenas. The cubs were frantic. “We must find Simba!” They knew that without his leadership, they were doomed to become subjects of the one known as El Diablo. And that would not do if the pride were to survive the season.

After some frightful minutes, they found Simba, slumped over and unconscious. “Is he alive?”, one wondered aloud. “It looks like a murder scene in here,” said another.

But Simba was strong, and with the help of the rest of the cubs he made it back to the Admin, where he slept with the peacefulness of a Serengeti sunset.

Life is a circle, and soon Simba returned to the pride, older and wiser. The experience had forged him into a great leader, and the pride knew it would survive.